Winter Vignette: Part 4

[Winter’s not giving up. Weariness erodes us. I write vignettes so folks in civilized climes can “enjoy” the winter they’re missing. Either that, or they can watch the movie version.

Right now, as I type, it’s snowing like a son of a bitch. My weather radio goes off periodically to warn of the ongoing storm watch. (Thanks NOAA but I already knew. I can “watch” the storm through my window.)

Regardless, there’s hope. The calendar doesn’t lie. All things are cycles and the planetary orbit will not be denied. This too shall pass.

Despite the snow, it’s warm enough to heat my shop again. I retreat to my wood littered, cement floored nest of tools. I’m not being productive though. Until I see a robin on the grass, my gumption is still siphoning off my reserve tank.

I push aside my tools and blog. I have warmth and silence (and bourbon). This may be the only blog post on the internet typed into a NEO2 perched on a homemade workbench while riding out a blizzard by the warmth of a 70 year old kitchen stove. Is that not making the best of things?

If nothing else, it’s better to blog from a workshop than grumble at a television in the house.]

So where was I? Oh yes… sucking on a watermelon Jolly Rancher and turning from pavement to the dirt road.

The driving conditions should be better. There are a few tire tracks where I began the day by breaking trail. I slowly churn through the snow. It’s not easy to see the road’s course but I know it’s under there somewhere.

Keep your head and there will be no worries.

The snow’s deep but manageable. Hope for no additional complications.

On cue, a complication arises. I spy the taillights of a generic SUV at the edge of my forward vision. It’s at full stop. Not good.

I stop. I stay waaaaaaaaaaay back. Lest the county snowplow lurch out of the gloom and turn me into a hood ornament, I flip on hazard lights (my headlamps are already on). I wait.

Now the SUV’s back up lights are on. Definitely not a good sign. I back up almost to the pavement. I intend on staying far away from whatever drama is going down over there. The SUV backs up in fits and starts until it finally noses into a cleared driveway. I inch ahead. When I’m past it, the SUV darts back out of the driveway and hightails it for pavement. What the hell did it see?

This, folks, is what’s called a “clue”. Never plunge into an obstacle that you can’t assess and just scared someone away. I inch ahead but it’s not too bad. Just to be safe, I go back into low range. Ironically, the tire tracks have made things a worse. They obliterated the occasional “blown free” spot. I’m staying on the road by feel as much as visual cue. Slow and steady wins the race.

A quarter mile later I see the problem. A full size 4×4 with a plow is ditched good and solid. Recently too. I can tell it was recent because the driver is still rocking back and forth as if it’ll help. Nice try but the die is already cast. I can see from 50 yards there’s no way in hell he’s driving out of his predicament.

I park in the middle of the road; far from the truck. I put on my hazard lights again, strap on a fur hat, don six layers of jacket, and venture forth. As always, the truck door is almost ripped from my hand. You’d think I’d remember that by now.

My Jolly Rancher has been consumed and I cough like a chain smoking coal miner as I shuffle up to the truck. A man hops out. He’s grinning in that leer of madness a man has when he’s totally screwed and yet keeps trying to make the best of it. I know that leer.

“Just drove  off…” He trails off with his explanation.

I see the tire tracks. The truck is exactly where he pointed it. Bummer. Still, that’s the nature of bad conditions. There’s no shame in missing the road when you can’t see it.

“Shit happens.” I commiserate. “Looks like there’s no damage. How awesome is that?”

At this he makes a weak smile. His truck is buried hood deep in snow but it’s light fluffy snow. His passenger side is 5′ below the road bed but it cam up against a flat field and not a tree or rock. It’s not on a slope so it can’t go any further. It will probably emerge unscathed.

“Yeah. I was lucky. It’ll be fine when I get out… in May.” Gallows humor.

I’m not sure what I can do. Obviously you can’t leave a person out here. But the truck’s toast.

“Can you push?” He asks.

Sure. And after I bench press his Ford F-150 like Superman, I’ll introduce him to my pet unicorn.

“How about a pull?” I wave at the Dodge. “I don’t think I can get you out but I’ll try.”

He brightens considerably and dives back into his truck. His wife is in there (at the bottom of a truck canted 30 degrees and immobile!) Another complication. In my experience, female passengers lash out at whomever’s driving when shit like this happens. Of course, that’s my experience and not yours. YMMV and so forth. If I was on Facebook I’d be put in internet jail for my observation but I’m sticking with it.

Poor guy is doomed and he’s probably not getting positive feedback. I wish I had a Jolly Ranger to offer.

He returns with a tow rope. Now he’s shivering. It’s very cold.

I explain that I’ve got a dually and duallys suck at traction on ice. I’ll try but I can’t promise anything. I’m happy to have tow hooks below my front bumper.

I roll back and get the line taut. He revs his truck. I do the same. My tires break free without doing jack squat. I bounce a bit trying to use the tow strap’s elasticity. No good.

I inspect my tire’s situation on the road. Where I expected frozen dirt there’s very slick ice. It all adds up to one big nope. I hand him his tow strap.

“How about a ride home?” I offer. “I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.”

He glances sadly at his truck. I know the feeling. The impulse to go down with the ship lodges deep.

I don’t want to leave him here. He’ll be fine until his tank runs empty but then the heater will give out and shit will get real. I’m sure every tow truck in the county is busy right now. Cell phones and credit cards can’t solve this problem in this place at this time. Even so, he’s uncertain. Stubborn.

“How about I try pulling forward?” I offer. I’m sincerely apologetic that duallys are no good at this sort of thing. I wish I had a winch… or a heavy lift helicopter.

He eagerly agrees to a forward pull; grasping at hope. Plunging into waste deep snow he REMOVES his front plow. Whoa! It’s one of those tiny consumer grade “mini plows”. Never seen one in real life.

It’s not too heavy so (with a lot of coughing on my part) we lug it up the slope and down the length of his truck. He wades down to his tailgate and opens it. I give the plow blade a shove and it gently toboggans into the bed. He closes the tailgate. Pretty cool!

I pull ahead and we reset the tow strap. Usually, pulling ahead is better than backing up. However, I have an inkling his truck is too heavy for my dually’s weak traction. Also, I don’t want to be pulled into his gravity well.

Sure enough, my rear tires break loose and my whole rear end abruptly swings 20 degrees towards the gaping maw of the ditch. Yikes! Bravely, I give it one more try. This time my whole truck shimmies 2′ sideways; far too close to turning one stuck truck into two.

Game over. I tried.

We meet again in the snow. I’m already untying the tow rope.

“Not happening man. Sorry. Want a ride now?”

He agrees and plunges back into the snow to retrieve his wife.

Meanwhile I clear my truck cab. I don’t own a cap so everything I need for every situation winds up piled in the rear and passenger seats. It’s a mess. Despite having a huge truck there’s barely room for one up front, provided you don’t mind a sledge hammer under your feet. I can squeeze a second person in the back, provided you don’t mind a wall of jackets and camping gear falling on your lap.

I usher someone into the back seat and realize “wife” was actually “teenage son”. So much for my assessment of social situations. The kid’s shy about riding in my truck. (“Dad, you want me to hop in a truck with some hillbilly serial killer?” “Son, either climb in or die on the road.” Welcome to winter.)

The kid’s clutching a handful of stovepipe. Like me, they were route home from the hardware store. My doorknob gave out, their woodstove pipe warped. Small world.

I drive the few extra miles to their house. It’s not too bad but I pilot the Dodge with the care usually associated with defusing a bomb. I don’t leave until I see them both go inside their house.

Soon I’m back home and it’s time to install the doorknob.

Stay tuned. The story isn’t over yet…